


Stone Cold

by Emachinescat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Friendship, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to 'The Darkest Hour'. Merlin's been in some pretty sticky situations. He's been hurt and injured, but if he falls, he always gets right back up. But this time, as Arthur stares at the too-still form of his servant at the base of the wall, Merlin doesn't get up. Spoilers for 4x01</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own, for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

In an instant, everything you know, everything you  _are_ , can change.

Arthur knew this. He had experienced it. Hell, this was the story of his  _life_. He'd lost his mother to childbirth complications. Morgana to the darkness and hatred in her own heart. His father to his own despair, the madness that had been stirring inside of him for who knows how long. He'd had his loyalties tried and tested, time and time again, had nearly died more times than he cared to remember. He'd failed his people on more than one occasion but had somehow managed to right things.

Yes, Arthur knew very well the cruelty of life, the callousness of fate, and the uncaring touch of the hand of death.

Even so,  _nothing_ could have prepared him for the all-consuming spike of terror that jolted through his entire being as he watched the one person he could always count on to be there, the one friend – yes,  _friend_ , they were all about to die anyway, so he figured there was no point in denying it anymore – push him aside and jump in the path of the spirit. Merlin was the man that always seemed to come out of any situation, no matter how dangerous, and who Arthur never had to wonder if he was there, by his side.

Because Merlin was. By his side, that is.

Merlin didn't get hurt. Sure, there had been the time with the poison, and the nick on the arm, but he had come out of it with no lasting effects. Because Merlin  _didn't_  die. He didn't fall without getting back up. He was, despite being one of the thinnest and clumsiest men Arthur knew, the closest thing to a  _rock_  that Arthur knew. Not in the sense that he was terribly strong or sturdy – but he was resilient. Always there. He might be a total klutz, but he didn't get knocked down easily, and when he did – well, he got right back up.

Except this time, Merlin didn't get back up. As Arthur lay there on the floor, right where Merlin had pushed him out of the way of the spirit of the dead, the huddled, limp,  _too_ still lump that was Merlin didn't so much as twitch. Arthur had watched as his servant was hit full-on by the skeletal grinning face composed of mist but doused in death. He'd only been able to observe, stunned and terrified, as Merlin was thrown all the way across the room at the impact, hurtling into the wall with tremendous force. Arthur watched as he fell – the world had been moving slowly, too slowly – and landed on the ground, back turned to Arthur, facing the wall.

And he didn't get up.

Arthur wanted to get up, to go run to his side. He wished he could get his legs to move, his body to respond to the frantic orders stumbling drunkenly through his stunned mind. But he couldn't move. Just like Merlin. Merlin lay limp at the base of the wall. And Arthur could only stare.

Hadn't it been only moments before that he had been talking to Merlin, joking around with him despite the tension in the air? He'd all but admitted that he was Merlin's friend. They had laughed at Arthur's joking insult that Merlin was brave – between battles. But that was a lie. Arthur had known it then, just as he knew it now. Merlin wasn't just brave in between the action. Merlin  _was_ brave. Bravery  _was_ Merlin. Despite his lean frame, ridiculous ears, big mouth that didn't know when to shut, and clumsy step, Merlin was the bravest man Arthur knew.

He had jumped in between Arthur and the approaching spirit, willingly taking the prince's place. And it hadn't even seemed like he'd had to think about it. He'd just… done it.

And now he was in a heap next to the wall.

Arthur couldn't see his face. He didn't know if Merlin was alive. No, he was alive. He  _had_  to be. He was  _Merlin_. Merlin always got back up.

Gaius's words echoed ominously in his head. No one survives being touched by one of these creatures. Merlin hadn't just been touched, the thing had gone all the way  _through_  him. The other victims had died instantly. How could he assume that Merlin would survive this?

It was then that he realized that the thing was still out there. It had taken Merlin, and it would take him, too. He still couldn't move, not even to save his own life.

Voices. The knights burst into the room, Lancelot leading them with a single torch held high. Arthur watched through watery eyes as the dark-haired knight drove the monster away with a few swings of the flame. Someone asked what happened.

Arthur didn't answer. Instead, he looked at Merlin. Merlin, who had saved his life – but at what cost? Merlin, who had fallen, and who still hadn't gotten up. Merlin had been his constant companion, his never-moving rock. But as Arthur finally managed to stumble to his feet and rush across the room to his servant's side, he was faced with the terrifying prospect that his "rock" might just have crumbled.

Shaking hands turned the servant over; Arthur nearly recoiled at the coldness that positively seeped from Merlin's being. Arthur fought back the tears. Merlin was fine. Just out for a little while; he'd jump back up, call Arthur a prat, and tease him for fretting.

Merlin didn't move. In fact, every muscle in his body was stone-cold, frozen solid, still. Not the kind of "rock" Arthur was hoping for. Frost dotted his face, his clothes, his hair. His face was rigid, lines of pain etched into the pale skin. His eyes were open. Unblinking.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. His voice shook. "Merlin?"

Merlin didn't get back up.

He was… d—

No, Arthur wouldn't even allow himself to think that word.

He could hear cursing, low, angry murmurs, and a soft, angry moan from behind him. He didn't pay attention. He glanced down at Merlin's torso, where one hand was awkwardly draped across his thin chest. Arthur stilled. The hand was moving. Slowly. Far too slowly. But it was moving.

Merlin was breathing.

He was, somehow, still alive.

And even as Merlin's eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out, still freezing and covered in frostbite, Arthur couldn't help but let a tiny smile grace his lips.

Merlin wasn't getting back up right now, but he wasn't out of the game yet.

And for now, that was enough.


End file.
